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MEMORIALS 



OF 



WILLIAM A. GUNTON 



HIS WIFE MARY R. M. GUNTON, 



CONSISTING OF 



jftttuol tymnnxm, 



Rev. JOHN MARTIN and Rev. BYRON SUNDERLAND. 




PHILADELPHIA: 4 
PRINTED BY ISAAC AS II MEAD. 

1855. . 






ADDRESS OF REV. J. MARTIN 



AT THE PUBERAL OF 



MARY R. M. GUNTON, 

Died February 20, 1853. 

What a change is made in a few short days and 
even hours here, when all our boasted happiness is 
brought to an end. Fast following in our footsteps, 
as we carelessly hasten on, is the fell destroyer, 
with his foot of velvet and his heart of steel. We 
heed not his noiseless step, until by some sudden 
and perhaps overwhelming blow, we are made too 
sadly conscious of his presence and his power. 
Into how many of our dwellings has he already 
entered, since even this year began its course! 
And he has been here. Behold his work ! How 
sad the change ! O ! what a blighting is this of 
fairest hopes, of envied happiness ! The tidings of 
this death came to me like a clap of thunder. My 
heart failed me when I heard it, and I could only 
bow in grief and submission, saying, " Thy will, O 
God, be done." Only a few days previous I had 
left the family unmoved by a single serious dis- 
quietude, and happy in the reasonable prospect of 
her speedy restoration to health. And these few days 



sufficed to blast the fair prospect and spread gloom 
and mourning through the dwelling, which seemed 
devoted to prosperity and joy. Here then, is a 
scene to touch and move our hearts. We view it 
with tearful eyes and prayerful solicitude. Not 
from duty only, but from affection, do we now 
weep w 7 ith those that weep, and ask of God to com- 
fort and defend them in this great trouble, O, let 
us share, as far as it is possible, the burden which 
has been laid upon them, and cheer their drooping 
souls by every assurance of Christian sympathy. 
Let us feel, brethren, the ties of our common faith 
drawing us near to them and to one another, and 
awakening all our kind affections for them. And 
O, that He, who has thus smitten, may graciously 
heal and restore some measure of comfort to the 
stricken hearts of this bereaved family. 

Think of their loss. It is indeed no ordinary 
affliction ; — a wife, a mother, a daughter, a sister. 
All these relations she filled ; filled them with a 
dignity, affection and purity which awakens our 
admiration, but gives poignancy to the grief with 
which we lament her. At all times we feel the 
attractive power of female loveliness, and especially 
when heightened by the charm of a winning cour- 
tesy. None are insensible to such influences, 
whether it be the child or the man. Such qualities 



may well be coveted, for they possess all power for 
good. With the young especially they are persua- 
sive, and they are the objects of our peculiar care 
and solicitude. They are our hope, and around 
them we should seek to throw every influence that 
can help their childhood and win them to a virtuous 
and useful life. And I have marked attentively 
the good effects of so kind a temper, especially 
towards the young, by which, " she being dead, yet 
speaketh." There are those children among us, I 
am sure, who will carry to their graves, though 
in distant years, the pleasant memory of the gen- 
tle dead, whose smile and caress so won their 
young and susceptible hearts. It is indeed a beau- 
tiful trait to seek to adorn oneself with the soft 
features of an affable and condescending temper, 
and which would drive away the shadows and the 
sorrows which so often rest upon the human brow, 
and restore a sense of confidence and joy. Crossed 
as our lot is by many a care, and grief, and woe, so 
that even childhood weeps with bitter tears, how 
beautiful is that one whose smiles and affection can 
win us from our sorrow and soothe the beating of a 
troubled heart. Ah, that is eminently the sphere 
of woman, and blessed indeed is she who is thus 
adorned with the manifold graces of a kind and 
gentle nature. How amiable, how irresistible, how 
attractive is she, shining where she does not seek 



to shine, eloquent even when silent, and gaining all 
by submission, by patience, by self-denial. 

I have thus adverted to some of the feminine 
virtues and graces which resided in that fair form, 
but let us meditate a moment longer on that which 
surpasses all the rest. Though adorned as a pattern 
of conjugal and filial attachment, and possessing 
many generous qualities, her chief excellency after 
all, appears as we behold her arrayed in the robe of 
unfeigned piety and triumphant faith in God. And 
thus she " walked before the Lord in the land of 
the living." This it is which brings us consolation, 
and helps to remove the heaviness from our spirits. 
This brings a healing balm for our wounded hearts, 
for "blessed are the dead who die in the Lord." 

I am sure 1 may speak of her thus without in- 
fringing on the proprieties of this solemn occasion. 
It is due to the sense which we entertain of her 
amiable and attractive qualities, the remembrance 
of which cannot fail to awaken pleasant and kindly 
thoughts for many years to come. 

And thus I desire to commend her virtues, and 
to express the desire, that many among you may 
cultivate and exhibit the like amiable and pleasing 
qualities of her, whose young life, so full of promise, 
has been suddenly cut short. It goes to my very 
heart, both as pastor and friend, thus to follow, day 
after day, the beloved ones of my charge to the 



grave, and to find their work and labor done, just 
as I have built my earnest expectation upon the 
help they should afford me in my ministry. And 
it seems to speak to all of us who remain, in deep 
and solemn tones, " Work ye, work ye, while it is 
day, the night cometh when no man can work." 
It seems to say also, in tenderest tones, " Love one 
another." Be ye kind one to another, tender 
hearted, forgiving one another. 

O, how soon the shadows which have crossed 
her path may darken our own, and stretch them- 
selves over all our earthly prospects, and w^e like 
her shall descend into darkness and the tomb. Let 
then, our gathering around these beloved remains, 
tend to quicken all our powers towards the attain- 
ment of our salvation. And while we now realize 
the greatness of the work that remains to be done, and 
the need there is to be up and doing, let us think of 
the reward of the humble, the charitable, the pious 
soul ; let us think of her reaping because she faint- 
ed not, and look forward to that glorious harvest 
when we too shall be permitted to gather our 
sheaves rejoicing. And what a day will that be — 
a day of joy and gladness, when friends long sever- 
ed shall meet again at the appearing of Jesus Christ, 
and the ties of love and friendship be purified and 
perfected in the presence of God and of his Son, 
amidst the joy of the heavenly world. 



ADDRESS OF REV. J. MARTIN 



AT THE FUNERAL OP 



WILLIAM A. GUNTON, 

Died April 1, 1854. 

Let us rejoice with trembling, that we are ad- 
mitted to the fellowship of the great God, and are 
made partakers of his grace through the gospel of 
his Son. Let us seek our support from above 
while our earthly props are failing us, and as the 
outward man decay eth, let us see to it, that the in- 
ward man is renewed day by day. Around us, 
while we speak, all is changing ; fading as the flow- 
ers in the blast of the cold north wind. None are 
exempt. And of man it is said, " Dust thou art, 
and unto dust thou shalt return." Yes, my breth- 
ren, this is the end of all flesh. It is the end of 
youth in spite of all his charms. We see him to- 
day walking forth in his strength, and gracefulness, 
and beauty ; his cheek radiant with health, and his 
eye beaming with intelligence, and as we behold 
him thus, we build our hopes upon him, and 
scarcely think of the decay and deatb, which in 
secret, are ever near to prey upon the fairest and 
most cherished objects of our affection. Again we 



see him, and all is changed, sadly changed. God 
has taken away his breath, and all that remains is 
the pale, lifeless corpse of the one so much admired 
and beloved. 

" Our life is then but a vapour, which is seen a 
little while and then vanisheth away ; as a tale that 
is told and remembered no more, or as a w T ind that 
passeth over and cometh not again." 

The man is thoughtless, indeed, who is not hum- 
bled with these reflections. These are surely the 
things to move us; to awaken our sympathy; to 
call forth our tears ; to excite our deepest interest in 
the one thing needful ; to lead us to call incessantly 
for help, till we shall find a sure and never failing 
refuge in Him " whose days are without end and 
whose mercies cannot be numbered." 

My brethren, were I to consult alone my own 
feelings on this mournful occasion, I should not 
speak one word, but follow with a stricken heart 
these beloved remains to their last silent resting 
place. No slender and uncertain ties bound me to 
the deceased, but acquaintance had grown into 
friendship, and friendship for a high-principled and 
intelligent young man had ripened into affection of 
no common strength, as I observed his progress in 
the knowledge and obedience of the Gospel. His 
position among us was one of peculiar responsibility 
2 



10 

which he strove zealously to fill, and by his zeal, 
activity and liberality, gave promise of much use- 
fulness in the position he had chosen, and in the 
church of God. It was my cherished hope and 
earnest prayer, that he might be long spared to 
flourish in the house of our God, and by the force 
of his active mind, and consistent piety, greatly ad- 
vance the cause of the Gospel among the people in 
whose midst Providence had wisely placed him; 
and from whom He has thus suddenly removed 
him. We bow to the stroke in grief and in tears. 
In disappointment and perplexity, we call upon 
God ; our eyes wait upon Him, until He have 
mercy upon us. On a former occasion, similar to 
this, a year ago, an occasion in which he felt a deep 
and sorrowful interest, I then remarked, in these 
words, of her, dear indeed to him, dear to all who 
who knew her : "It goes to my heart, both as pastor 
and friend, thus to follow day after day, the beloved 
ones of my charge to the grave, and to find their 
work and labor done, just as I have built my earnest 
expectations upon the help they should afford me 
and the comfort they should bring me amidst the 
cares and labors of my ministry." And now these 
words are true of him upon whom our eyes have 
looked with so much affection and hope. He has 
gone from among us, — gone to a brighter and nobler 



11 

sphere. Of this we are sure ; and we may now 
think of him, as one worthy to be cherished in our 
remembrance and whose name will long live in the 
wide circle of our community. I desire then to 
speak the language of truthful eulogy and to express 
the feelings of a bereaved pastor's heart, when I 
commend him thus, as one who was lovely in his 
life, and over whose sad and early fate we may well 
shed the burning tear. 

When I first heard this melancholy story, I knew 
not, where to turn, — my mind was filled with a 
strange consternation. In time, prayer, our truest 
refuge, calmed my troubled thoughts. I sought for 
light amidst the gloom. I turned to the correspond- 
ence of my young friend. I sought in his letters to 
me, for that consolation, dearest of all at such a 
moment as this. He had often conversed with me, 
and of late, being much from home, had written to 
me about his spiritual concerns, — and now I felt 
that every word was precious to me, to all who 
truly loved him, — every word that could assure us 
of his religious state of mind and meetness for the 
summons which had reached him so suddenly. 

He was naturally, and almost timidly averse to 
speaking on this solemn subject, even to those most 
deeply interested in his spiritual welfare. This 
often grieved him. He felt a generous gratitude 



12 

for every such kindness, but the reluctance con- 
tinued. It is not an uncommon experience, we 
know, and often when the tongue is silent, the heart 
beats warm and true to the appeals which stir it, in 
its inmost depths. 

Peculiar circumstances had postponed the public 
profession of his faith, a question long since de- 
liberately, prayerfully, and resolutely decided upon. 
In one of his recent letters to me, he speaks of this 
as " the cherished wish of his heart," about which 
above all other subjects he desired to converse with 
me. Again, he says : "lam most happy then, my 
dear pastor, to tell you, that I have fully determined 
with the grace of God, to come out from the world 
and declare myself openly a follower of Jesus. I 
desire your frequent and earnest prayers, that I 
may be upheld and strengthened in the Christian 
life."* 

* In another letter, he says to me : "I have not rashly made up my 
mind to this," — a public profession, — " and it is only after months of 
consideration and self-examination, that now no longer doubting or 
hesitating, I have fully and freely determined on this cause. And 
having so decided, I purpose, with your approbation, to present myself 
for confirmation at the time of the Bishop's next visit to our parish, 
and I desire your frequent and earnest prayers that I may not bring 
discredit on the Christian name." 

In another letter, the same sentiments are repeated ; but written 
from Boston, and while his sister, Mrs. B., was very ill. In it he 
speaks most affectionately of her and her children; but in a strain of 
sadness also, from what lie then apprehended in her case, that makes 



13 

And thus I found some relief, and was enabled 
to bless God for such a mercy, which comes to us 
now for the healing of the wounded and troubled 
spirits of mourning relatives and friends. May God 
help them to understand and receive this strong 
consolation. I sincerely believe that our dear young 
friend is in a far happier state than this. He has 
been removed from a world of troubles. He has 
gone before us a little while, and perhaps never 
could have gone more beloved, more lamented, or 
more prepared for an inheritance in glory. 

Wherefore, beloved, comfort one another with 
these words. See amidst your affliction the evident 
tokens of the Divine favor. Let the spirit of patience 
and submission to the Divine will calm the tumult 
of your thoughts, that with a resigned, if not a re- 
joicing heart you may be able to say : " The Lord 
gave, and the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the 
name of the Lord." 

me hesitate to send it. Also some letters in reference to which I have 
felt his request, that they should be private, to be sacred. 

In all his communications however, is to be traced that prevailing 
disposition which for a long time he had indulged, indicating the pre- 
sence and power of the blessed Spirit, leading him on to the knowledge 
and obedience of the truth. 



FUNERAL DISCOURSE 



BY 



REV. B. SUNDERLAND. 

Jeremiah, ix. 21. 

"for death is come up into our windows and is entered into 
our palaces, to cut off the children from without, and the 
young men from the streets." 

Such is the record of human desolation. Now, 
as of old, the skeleton form treads on, darkening our 
habitations and smiting down the loving and the 
beloved. 

" The gray-haired and the sunny-haired, 
Are sleeping side "by side." 

We have seen a case but a few days since — one 
case, indeed, of many — but one which strikes home 
heavily, because death was so sudden, and came so 
near ! 

Young men, there are many among you, who 
know of whom I speak. He was your friend and 
companion. And now that his ashes are mingling 
with the mother elements, you would not willingly 
forget him. Suffer me, therefore, to recall the 



15 

memory of William Gunton, to sketch in brief the 
outline of his life, and to set before you the lesson 
of his too early and lamented departure. 

He was born in this city, in November, 1825. 
Some of you remember him, as he was in his child- 
hood, ardent, impulsive, but frank and generous to 
a rare degree. Born to a competence, he had no 
ostentation. Cherished by family and friends, the 
centre of a large and familiar acquaintance, he never 
demitted the regard due to others, nor waved the 
reciprocities of interest and affection. His early 
years gave no ambiguous signal of what his after- 
life should be. His manhood was but the natural 
maturity, without much other change, of what his 
infancy and youth had been. Some men are gifted 
to inspire us with more than a current friendship. 
Few comparatively they may be ; but he was one 
of them. None came to know him without some 
touch of that sympathy, exemplified of old, "sur- 
passing the love of woman." 

No doubt, it is a warm and living vision, which, 
having him for the central figure, now stirs in many 
a heart, and kindles afresh the associations of school- 
boy days and wandering sports, of books and travel, 
and the yet more sober scenes of a mutual experi- 
ence. Many a message and many a testimony from 
his distant and scattered comrades, elicited by the 



16 

melancholy news, tell how large a place he had won 
and held in the estimations of all classes. 

He was graduated at Yale College, in 1847; 
having enjoyed at New Haven, at Andover, and at 
several other places of distinction, the means of 
mental culture. But though thus highly favored 
by all that parental fondness or generosity could 
bestow, he had no ill-judged ambition. His mind 
informed and his taste attuned to the embellish- 
ments of art, — his character elevated by classic 
influence, and polished in the schools, he yet lost 
none of that simplicity, none of that habitual regard 
for religious things, which he exhibited from the 
first. 

He chose the pursuit of the husbandman, was 
married in June, 1848, and after a time was delight- 
fully settled at Millwood, with all the charms and 
and endearments which prosperity and the society 
around him could furnish to his happiness. He 
was thus brought into closer relations with the 
church and the parish of the Rev. Mr. Martin, an 
Episcopal clergyman. 

And there his usefulness, like a blossom, seemed 
just unfolding. There did he devote his labor, not 
only to the noble aims of his chosen avocation, but 
also, with his beloved wife, to the still nobler aims 
of the Christian religion and the worship of God. 



17 

It was a beautiful picture, comprising as much of 
the light, with as little of the darkness, as men usu- 
ally see on earth. 

Look at him there, a young man with every 
earthly advantage, yet with none of the corrupted 
habits which ease and affluence commonly produce, 
with no itching for the applause of an empty name, 
turning away from the temptations of a political 
career, and from the devious and dangerous walks 
of public life, that he might confer a dignity on that 
most manly of all pursuits, which, honored in itself, 
lies at the foundation of every worldly prosperity, 
and while fulfilling the Divine law of labor, leads 
back the soul, through the purer channels of nature, 
to the sweet and salutary communion of our hea- 
venly Father. 

Without disparaging other legitimate vocations, 
next to that of the missionary of the cross, it were 
wiser to prefer and prize the employments of agri- 
culture, in the simplicity of its home-bred life, and 
in the influence it sheds on all the higher virtues of 
humanity. A world of mischief and enormity 
would cease, if this department of human enterprise 
w T ere more generally esteemed and more universally 
prosecuted. 

The first and finest recollections in the soul, are 
of scenes in a farming district, of the homestead 
3 



18 

where father and mother lived, where lay the ances- 
tral burial-ground and rose the village church. 
From places so consecrated, one call alone had 
power to lure me away — the paramount duty of 
preaching to my fellow-men the salvation of the 
cross — I therefore here record my testimony for the 
use of every young man who is disposed to profit 
by it, that next to the work of the Christian minis- 
try, I would have chosen the pursuit of husbandry, 
as the wisest way to serve my God and my fellow- 
men. This also was the judgment of our departed 
friend. And the pastor and the church were just 
beginning to lean upon him, and father and friends 
were rallying around him to partake his joys. The 
path of the upright had unfolded before him, and 
Providence was smiling on the spirit of his plans 
and the openings of his life. 

But the cup of our discipline is mingled with 
bitter dregs, and who can evade that shadow which 
falls on the happiest human heart? Aside from the 
common troubles which cloud the brightest day, he 
had three special griefs : the loss of his now sainted 
mother, when he was but yet a youth ; a loss which 
none can know save those who feel, — the loss of his 
first-born : the lamb taken by the great Shepherd 
because He loved it much, and would thereby draw 
its parents toward the heavenly fold, — and his last 



19 

deep grief, the death of his idolized wife, which fell 
on him like a great darkness, but little more than a 
year ago. None but God doth know what work 
went on apace in that sad heart, when at these 
times of sorrow, he saw no stable hope on earth, 
and felt how life itself, "is but a winter's day — a 
journey to the tomb." 

I cannot dwell on these dark shades — I cannot 
describe to you that furnace of affliction wherein he 
walked in the first flush of morn, so soon to be over- 
cast. But this we hope, he walked not there alone. 
One Mighty to Save stood by him, and by that pre- 
sence, composed his weary spirit, and bade him 
look beyond "this vale of tears," where wife and 
child, and mother and friends had reached the final 
home before him. 

I follow him during his last year on earth. I see 
him struggling with a burdened heart. I hear his 
voice of prayer in secret places. I count the silent 
tears that fall upon a fresh made mound, as more 
than once, he kneels, kissing the hallowed earth, in 
yonder cemetery. I see two children about his 
knees, motherless now, while convulsed with images 
of her who bore them, he stifles down his sighs, 
and smiles into the little faces through swimming 
eyes. I see him making the round of dwellings, 
where kindred welcomes salute the loaded pilgrim ; 



20 

but among them all he tells no wish to live or to 
linger here. The spell of eternity is upon him. It 
seems, some heavenly voice had whispered in his 
soul, for I hear him speak of the coming day when 
he shall follow the objects of his love. 

And there all the year about, he walks under the 
night but makes no murmur. God is dealing with 
his soul, and he ripens towards his change. His 
church grows dear, — his pastor writes to him, 
— his mind is now made up, — and Christ his Re- 
deemer is nearer than all. He comes to the city, to 
receive confirmation, as an open disciple of the 
cross. A providence suspends the consummation 
of his purpose. But the altar is erected in his de- 
solate household, and there, among domestics and 
friends, the master of the family lifts up the voice 
of prayer. 

I begin to see now into the inner life of one whose 
retiring diffidence would have concealed him from 
the public gaze. I see his natural virtues crowned 
by the excellency of that faith which is in Christ. 
In the written correspondence with pastor and 
friends he breathes out a soul imbued with the spirit 
of the great salvation. The year has been dark, 
and yet a new light has sprung up : with that light, 
the impression deepens in his mind that death to 



21 

him will come quickly. A heavenly voice has 
whispered it again. 

Another providence brings him to this house of 
God. I see him in his place upon the holy Sab- 
bath. Alas, it seems but yesterday since he was 
here. How with upturned countenance and eager 
attention he listened to that message ! I did not 
think it would be his last. That Sabbath saw him 
kneeling, as the sun declined, and weeping in the 
bitterness of his heart, once more and only once, 
upon that spot, so consecrated among the graves ! 
As he turned away, emerging from the trees, again 
the heavenly voice forewarned him, and to a friend 
he said, "I shall not live another year." It was 
God preparing him for the summons. One more 
sunrise, and then another and the last, at least to 
consciousness, with him. 

It was a bright and sunny day, as you all remem- 
ber. There was still a returning joy in the house- 
hold as the dawn broke forth — for the fragments of 
a scattered family were gathered, and the day gave 
promise to paternal pride and the sympathies of 
kindred. One had just arrived from her distant 
residence, pale and broken by lingering disease, yet 
it was her anniversary. In that one, daughter and 
sister, mother and wife were all bound up ; and over 
all, in that one, mingled the mysterious lights and 



22 

shades of the strange and deep experience of earth. 
At her coming, happiness and hope rekindled on 
the altar that had been showered with tears. The 
family tree, so sternly smitten, put forth that day its 
leaves of green, and the old and earlier pleasure ran 
back through the heart like the flush of summer 
beauties. It was a home-picture — faint resemblance 
of the final gathering on a brighter shore ! Eyes, 
that whilom, were dim, looked love into each other. 
Wishes of welfare and mutual congratulations 
quelled for the moment, the aching of hearts that 
trembled in view of anticipated sorrow. On that 
day he sat in the domestic circle and around a 
father's board, speaking words of pleasantness. 
The cloud seemed parted, and returning smiles 
lighted the features, that, so long shadowed, were 
destined soon to fall under a more fearful blackness. 
And so for an hour of recreation, in the conscious 
strength of his manhood, he went forth that day 
from his father's house. You know the painful 
casualty, which so suddenly transpired. I have no 
heart to tell it, nor yet the anguish that then smote 
into the dwelling of his loves. It was the work of 
a moment. As the sun fell westering, one start 
there was — one plunge, and he lay quivering and 
insensible on the hard street. He knew no more. 
They brought him back, and laid him on his couch 



23 

to die. The watchers stood beside him, — friends 
that would have wrung their heart's blood out, to 
have heard him speak. But the lamp of life burned 
feebly. He lay beyond the physician's skill, be- 
yond affection's voice, beyond all earthly power. 
The flame flickered towards the week's end, and on 
Saturday, the 1st of April, 1854, he expired. The 
pulse grew still, and the pilgrimage was ended. 
But though a deep silence reigned over his going, 
it is our joy to think that when the clay mantle fell, 
the delivered spirit sprung up to heaven, with an 
instant outburst of the triumphant halleluiah. 

We have conveyed his ashes, with reverent ser- 
vice to their resting-place. Many a cheek was wet 
that day, and many a heart all too sad, as the long 
procession followed him away. 

Into the deeper private griefs of afflicted kindred 
w T e may not further penetrate. Too sacred is that 
circle, where the blow of Heaven has smitten. 
God only knows the anguish of those wounds, He 
only can bind up and heal. 

But on the day of burial, I saw many young men 
whose tearful look and quivering lips bespoke the 
attachment which death had broken up. Dear 
brethren, I see you now. Give me your hearing. 
We have stood together by that grave. We have 
seen him fall from the full and flowering tree of our 



24 

manhood, with the dew of youth upon him. And 
now that he is gone, we would not lose the wisdom 
which grows from his hallowed mound. Thoughts 
from the sepulchre are winging this message with 
new force and warning into the soul by the memory 
of his example. Let me therefore unfold that' les- 
son of God and your own destiny, for it is not 
always that you and I will have such friends to 
bury or such words to speak. 

It is right to make the character of the dead a 
pattern to the living, especially so far as it tends to 
the maintenance of rectitude in human conduct — 
for being mortal, this beloved and lamented young 
man was not without his imperfections, and none 
more than he was ready to confess them. None 
better knew than he the need of a higher basis than 
human goodness in order to that perfection which 
reigns alone in heaven. But there were virtues in 
his life which, as of practical value, I feel bound most 
heartily to commend to your faithful imitation. 

I. First then to his habits of personal discipline. 
He was singularly temperate in all things. Tem- 
perance is that virtue which comprises almost the 
whole of the excellency of our earthly life. A firm 
stand against excess and " the excitement of the 
reason and the blood," is indispensable to him who 
would save himself or contribute to the good order 



25 

of society. What a mass of shame and wretched- 
ness might be spared to the population of this city 
alone, if the proper habits, on two or three subjects, 
were prevalent among the young men. I refer to 
the customs of eating and drinking, of spending the 
Sabbath and of social amusement. I know, my 
young brethren, that in these regards you live in a 
pestilent atmosphere. In the so-called higher cir- 
cles you witness examples that cover the cheek with 
blushes. In the lower quarters, you feel attractions 
that would draw you into scenes of dissipation and 
of ruin. There are always sources of corruption in 
a community like this, — enough to lie in wait for 
youth's hot temper, for the hasty passions, for the 
blindness of inexperience, for the debauchery of the 
conscience and the pollution of the heart, — enough 
to provoke the insidious temptation, and to inflame 
the appetites till the unsuspecting victim is reeling 
down the path of destruction, and men point him 
out for pity or for scorn. You see the mischief of it 
in others. You speak of it among yourselves. 
The nearest companion, if thus addicted, does not 
escape your scrutiny — perhaps your censure. It is 
singular, indeed, that men, themselves smitten with 
the fiery greed of uncontrolled appetite, will coolly 
deliberate on the proclivities of an acquaintance, 
extending compassion to others which should be 
4 



26 

elicited no less towards themselves. If you, my 
brethren, have entered on this course, let me entreat 
you to pause. " Touch not, taste not, handle not," 
that which before you are aware, may destroy your 
prospects and pollute your name forever ! 

II. Again, he was a serious and sober-minded 
young man. Perhaps there is nothing to which 
you are more liable, certainly nothing more injuri- 
ous, than levity of mind in regard to religious 
things. Men who are full of the vigor and elas- 
ticity of youth, mingling in gay scenes, where 
mirth and revelry are charged with a profane or 
vulgar spirit, must inevitably lose their reverent 
sense of sacred things. The high and quick appre- 
hension of the solemn claims and truth, of God is 
soon deadened, and perishes in such an atmosphere. 
There is little left in a mind so paralyzed, to which 
the more exalted views of life and duty can be ad- 
dressed. It is likely to sink into a worse than 
brute-existence, having no ambition but for sensual 
indulgence. Then the soul that should have been 
refreshed by the waters of salvation and drawn the 
impulse of its life from the source of its divine ori- 
gin, lies grovelling in the earth-born pools of cor- 
ruption, a degraded and shameful thing seeking its 
desire in pitfalls — the theatre, the cock-pit, the 
gaming-table, the race-ground and the drinking- 



27 

saloon — while its great immortal destiny is unheeded 
or despised. The effect of such a tendency is most 
disastrous to the vital convictions of men It as- 
sumes that religion itself may be treated as a foot- 
ball for our sport, and that all the deeper verities of 
human destiny are fit only to be bandied through 
the world, by such as neither recognize their nature 
nor submit to their authority. It must be a nobler 
spirit to keep men alive to a sense of their moment- 
ous obligations; and he is doing an untold service 
to his kind, who, whether in his private example or 
by his public conduct, maintains before the world, 
a refined and sacred regard for spiritual and eternal 
things. There is a reciprocal influence between 
the institutions of a people and the people them- 
selves. If, therefore, the pulpit exerts a mighty 
power upon the community, so in return will the 
community mould to a great extent the ministrations 
of the pulpit. There is an electric power which, 
though hidden, still leaps from heart to heart, till, 
gathering up, it springs both light and shock, and 
then the effects appear. That which has its seat 
far back in the invisible elements of the masses, 
shall come at length to be spoken in the streets and 
published on the house tops. Now since such a 
power lingers in the masses, and every young man 
is a portion of those masses, should he prove to be 



28 

in himself an embodiment of spiritual rectitude, he 
shall effect a glorious result in the consummations 
of his life, although the origin of those consequences 
may rest with himself in unexposed obscurity. To 
this high vocation let me urgently entreat you. In 
the sphere of your appointment, let no word or 
action of assault upon the religion of Christ or upon 
the Church of Christ escape you. Cast away for- 
ever those sacrilegious weapons, which have, alas, 
already prostrated so low the moral forces of evan- 
gelism, and made infidelity as current in our land as 
the waters in our streams. 

III. Again, I observe, he had a remarkably can- 
did and straight-forward mind. He had no evasions 
of speech, no secrets of thought to cover up. Not 
only is this essential to personal happiness, but it is 
also indispensable to the confidence of our fellow- 
men, and finally to success in the undertakings of 
life. In the ordinary walks of business, it is this 
great delinquency of young men, which so often 
disappoints parental expectations, which deprives 
them of employment, robs them of place and posi- 
tion, and undermines the structure of all their for- 
tunes, both here and for the hereafter. It is this 
want of frankness, this lack of moral courage, that 
drive so many into sinuosities and prevarications, 
which blight the soul and desolate the whole career 



29 

of life. It is the demon's business, my young 
brethren, to lead you into these crooked ways, to 
degrade and discomfort you by the entanglements 
of a web, which your own hands have complicated. 
Let me entreat you to be open-hearted and open- 
handed, and at whatever personal sacrifice to meet 
every responsibility full in the face. Cower not, 
but look up manfully, and say to the charge, " I 
have done wrong," — to the misfortune, "I am able 
to bear it," — to the temptation, " By all means, no !" 
Say to every call of duty, " Yes, with all my soul !" 
That is your part, and it is a noble part. We see 
what it makes of a man here, and what it makes of 
the memory of a man when he has gone from among 
us, to return no more. One of the strongest ties of 
his friendship, and that which afterwards sweetens 
and consecrates our recollections, is this transpar- 
ency of character, a sense of reliance which he thus 
everywhere inspired. 

IV. I observe again, he was submissive under 
affliction. When it came, it drove him not to the 
church only, but to his Saviour and his God. We 
cannot tell how much he suffered, as one after the 
other the blows fell. He was not boisterous in his 
grief, but covered it silently in the depths of his soul, 
and there it wrought out for him "a far more ex- 
ceeding and eternal weight of glory." 



30 

How, then, is it with you ? — for you too, doubt- 
less, have known heavy sorrows. I call back your 
minds to the day when you first looked on the face 
of a friend sinking under the great shadow. Was 
it father or mother, was it brother, sister, wife or 
child, — was it some fond companion with whom 
your life had been bound up ? Think over and re- 
vive that parting scene. How bitter was the cup, 
how the heart ached unto bursting, when they told 
you that death had done its work. How fhe tears 
fell scalding, by that now distant grave. How de- 
solate were the days of that mourning ! Yet did it 
make you an infidel or a Christian ? As you walked 
in that night of gloom, did your heart soften towards 
God and your fellow-men? Did you seek relief in 
prayer ? Did you find Christ ? Or trusting to the 
paralysis of time and the mitigations of worldly 
pleasure, have you since overcome those wounded 
sensibilities and hardened your whole nature, and 
gone on farther and farther astray from God and 
from heaven ? Nay, let me remind you of that hour 
when a heavy hand was laid upon yourself, and you 
saw the grave open to receive you. It was a time 
of misgiving, and you made a covenant with God. 
He seemed to have taken you at your word and re- 
stored you from trouble. But where is that word 
now ? It was spoken in the lone chamber, in the 



31 

silence of midnight, when the fever was on and the 
vision of eternity passed vividly before you. But 
now you have forgotten it ! Yet there is One who 
who has remembered — it is written in a book, your 
long-neglected oath ! 

Not so was it with your lamented companion. He 
knew the hand that had smitten him. He heard 
the voice which spoke from heaven, and when the 
full time came he was ready for the summons. He 
went just when, as it seems to human calculation, 
he could have been more useful than ever in the 
church on earth — just when he had begun to feel a 
warmer attachment and to betoken a deeper interest 
for the cause of Zion. He went when men could 
least spare him, and the vacancy he has left is in- 
deed most void and painful. He went out of the 
ranks of the first, best hope of his generation — of the 
flower of the church, the country, and the age. He 
went from a gratified family-circle, having father 
and kindred to do for him, what nature prescribes 
that the younger, the rather, should do for the aged. 
But he went not in vain, for, as we hope, it was to 
the bosom of the heavenly Father. He went thus 
early to meet the waiting spirits from whom he had 
been separated. He went, at the call of the Master, 
to a higher husbandry, to a more spiritual and ex- 
alted service. 



32 

In our hearts, we have said farewell, — we have 
bid our last adieus to him, till haply meeting on the 
brighter shore, we shall recount the mysteries of 
this earthly discipline, and wonder forever that we 
are at last in heaven. 

In view then of that example of our friend, which 
even now makes his name and his memory so pre- 
cious, shall we not take home its lesson to our 
hearts ? Can we find no stimulus in the open grave, 
no fire in his buried ashes, to warm us into life — 
that higher life by which a man shall live through 
faith in the Son of God ? It is said of Luther, that 
he had a college friend, Alexis, who was fearfully 
and violently summoned out of the world. As he 
stood over the grave, while tears of unaffected grief 
ran down his cheeks, he exclaimed, " What would 
become of me, if I were thus unexpectedly called 
away !" Not long after this, he was approaching 
the Academy of Erfurth, when he was overtaken 
by a violent storm. The thunder rolled, and a shaft 
of lightning sank into the ground at his feet. Lu- 
ther falls upon his knees. He sees, as though his 
hour had already come. Death, judgment, and 
eternity are there in terror before him. But there, 
under the pelting storm, he makes his vow unto 
God. If delivered from this danger, he will devote 
the spared life to His service. The storm lulls, the 



33 

elements are soothed, and Luther, like Paul, cries 
out, u Lord, what wilt thou have me to do ?" You 
may not, my young brethren, be startled into re- 
pentance by a circumstance like this. But will you 
not hear the voice that has already spoken ? Why 
should he be taken and you left ? Does something 
remain for you to do ? Have you no work which 
the Sovereign Disposer is still granting you an oc- 
casion to accomplish ? 

For whom death comes, and how soon it may 
come, God only knows. How would you have it 
find you — in the full flush and vigor of a Christian's 
activity, or only as a saunterer in the pilgrimage, 
indifferent alike to the direction and the terminus ? 
I think of your inmost reflections, as I urge the 
practicalities of religion upon you. I know the 
weariness and lassitude of the mind, — I know the 
vague and indefinable reluctance, before the sight 
of the universe to commit the whole life to the ser- 
vice of God and the whole soul to the salvation of 
the cross. I know how the struggle of the mind 
goes on, — how the purpose half-formed and lifted 
up, falls back upon the spirit like a garment of 
heaviness. I know those deep and dumb aspira- 
tions, w^hich in the better moments spring up to- 
wards God and heaven, and then how the chill and 
the darkness of the world come on, and the days, 
5 



34 

and weeks, and years are gone, and you have deter- 
mined but have not performed, and your doings 
have fallen behind your desires, and those great 
duties lie untouched which long ago should have 
been discharged. There, as the mind vacillates, 
the world grows stormy, a veil is on the temple of 
religion, the things of God and religion seem to melt 
away as in a dream, and the warnings which once 
bestirred the soul, have died away from your con- 
sciousness. And so, and so is it, 

" To-morrow and to-morrow creeps in this 
Petty pace n — 

from day to day. Oh, let it not thus go out like a 

"Brief candle." 

Let not life be worse than wasted, and so death seize 
you, and the grave cover you, and the realms of 
perdition await you as a reprobate from the infinite 
mercy of the almighty Redeemer. 

For again, I say, you know the value of life de- 
termined by the religion of the Gospel. You know 
that when a young man's years have been enriched 
by the devotion of his earliest and best affections, 
his course filled up with glorious achievements, his 
fight of faith finished in his fidelity to the last, he 
may die young indeed, but he has left his seal upon 
the circle, and perhaps upon the age in which he 



35 

lived. It is not death which impairs society so 
much, but that irreligion which deteriorates the 
essentia] value of human existence. Alas ! how 
many victims of corruption had better died long 
since, ere they turned aside forever from the walks 
of piety and virtue. Better had they been housed 
in the grave before they had gone astray in the aber- 
ration of a reprobate existence, impelled by inward 
lusts and passions, yielding to outward lures and 
enticements, giving out under misfortune, or plung- 
ing, all reckless in their hilarity, into the vortex of 
destruction. Ah, what has life been since they 
took their first false step ? Who will mourn for 
them when they die — perchance, who will know 
when, or where, or how they take their final obit to 
Gehenna ? Who shall regret their departure ? 
Nay, when the besom comes and sweeps them 
through the grave, the world shall breathe freer, and 
good men rejoice that a curse has been wiped out. 
And yet they were once in the innocence of youth. 
Once they struggled and resolved, as you do now, 
but temptation was too strong — death found them, 
but too late, they had gone over the precipice. The 
grave itself had been forestalled by a more fearful 
ruin. Who can wish to die like this — die in the 
pauperism of the soul — die in the penury of noble 
deeds — die without having filled the measure of his 



36 

days with the fulness of some heaven-born purpose 
which can never die? You therefore know the 
worth of life under the Gospel's light, and you 
know that to lose that worth of life is worse than to 
lose the life itself. 

To what result then do these reflections bring 
you? Oh, you especially who have wept, and 
could not withhold it, as you stood by the grave of 
your departed comrade, what remains for you but 
to make the choice he made, and assume the Chris- 
tian name and profession, as he was about to do ? 
For what is it after all, so far as human instrument- 
ality is concerned, but to use in a rational manner 
our rational powers, and in that use to surrender 
ourselves to God, in the time of acceptance and the 
day of salvation. Then He, by His eternal spirit, 
shall do all the rest ! 

I do confess that all the questions of this life 
dwindle into insigniflcence, not from indifference or 
insensibility towards them, but when contrasted 
with the relations which we sustain, with the posi- 
tion which we assume in reference to the religion 
and to the church of Jesus Christ. Here we are, 
pilgrims on the way. Yonder rolls the river to 
which we must sooner or later come. And there, 
on the other side, are the spirits who have gone be- 
fore. Shall not our eternity issue from the drift and 



37 

direction of our time ? Shall not " he that is unjust 
be unjust still," and " he that is righteous be righte- 
ous still?" There is then but one hope— our trans- 
formation must be here, for there it can be never. 
The good shall go from these shores to a higher 
state of goodness, the bad shall go to a more 
wretched condition of badness. These are the con- 
ditions of our being, hinging often upon the merest 
contingency. One quick blast, one sudden plunge, 
one casual misstep and all is over ! The circum- 
stance is on its way to end the earthly existence of 
every one of you. The shaft to strike you down is 
already pointed ! 

Oh, my soul! art not thou afraid when gazing 
above, beneath, around, thou seest God's hand 
stretched out in many symbols of human desolation. 
I looked so recently on the features of our beloved 
friend, alive with thoughts which the truth from 
heaven had kindled — and then for the last time as 
they were exposed to the tearful gaze of our nature's 
tenderest affection — and I said within me, "It is God 
only who can thus change the countenance of man 
and send him suddenly away." And as I stood by it, 
I prayed to heaven, for it was a shock that smote me, 
and my soul was dumb at the work of dissolution. 
I feel if I could but just now interpret in perfect 
language the lesson which then sank into my being, 



38 

God should lend me a tongue to persuade you, and 
cause you to submit to Him in this hour of saving 
mercy. There would wake within you a chord 
responsive to this strong word of Providence. He 
only knows your heart, your mind, your inmost 
soul on these momentous questions. But we know 
also, that it shall not be long when all will be re- 
solved. Should we hereafter, as now, be called to 
speak some words before the burial of one of you, 
who had not died in the faith and hope of Jesus, 
we could not find it in such a death, to console our 
minds with the vain imagination, that though you 
had lived and died in sin, yet you too had doubtless 
been received into the " house of many mansions." 
For, be assured, dear to you as our friend and bro- 
ther was — dear as a son, dear as a companion, dear 
as a spirit of joy and brightness moving in the social 
sphere and lighting up the household — had it not 
been found upon examination of his more private 
life, and his more recently avowed intentions — had 
it not been found in his almost prophetic impres- 
sion of a sudden summons, that he knew and 
walked with his Redeemer, and so had settled the 
mightiest question of his earthly history, I could 
not have come to this affecting task with such a 
solace, nor in the firm faith of my spirit, could I 
have repeated over his sepulture, that glorious epi- 



39 

taph of the departed Christian, "And I heard a 
voice from heaven saying unto me, Write, Blessed 
are the dead which die in the Lord from hence- 
forth : Yea, saith the Spirit, that they may rest 
from their labors; and their works do follow them." 
Amen. 



THE END. 

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